They stood in the little white church with their Sunday faces on, whispering behind folded bulletins while the rain tapped against the windows and the mountains disappeared into gray fog. Women who had ignored Ruby Walker for twenty years now dabbed at dry eyes. Men who had called her stubborn, bitter, difficult, and crazy stood by the back pews with their hats pressed to their chests as if respect at the end could erase contempt in the middle.
Ellie sat stiffly in the front row, hands knotted together, listening to the preacher talk about “a woman of fierce conviction.”
Her younger brother, Caleb, leaned close enough that only she could hear him.
“Funny,” he muttered. “When she was alive, they called her the witch on Black Fern Ridge.”
Ellie didn’t look at him. “Keep your voice down.”
“I’m just saying.”
He wasn’t wrong.
